‘I’ve met him. That’s where the usher told us to park as well. André said he hasn’t heard from Greg and suggested that we came to find you.’
A tiny chill ran down Sophie’s spine. This was completely out of character for the man who had been not only her lead photographer right from the start-up of Marry Me in Provence but a mentor, with his extensive experience and that dependable, father-figure vibe. If anything, she would have expected Greg to have been here since before dawn, capturing the silhouette of the turrets and spires against the first notes of gold and pink heralding the sunrise. On the other hand, he must have dozens of those shots in his library given how many times they’d used this venue over the years. Why reinvent the wheel?
‘He won’t be far away,’ she assured Raven. She already had her phone in her hand and it took only two swipes to make a call to Greg that, disturbingly, went straight to voicemail, which meant that he was either on the phone himself or his device was dead. With a frown, she slid the phone into her pocket and picked up the bottle of champagne. ‘Come with me. I’m on my way to check in with Zara. I’m sure Greg will be here any minute but there’s no need to panic. André will be getting footage of the prep and it’s not a problem to lift stills from the video if we need to.’
‘I like to take a few shots of my own, anyway.’ Raven fell into step beside her. ‘I’ll just need to get Zara’s okay if I want to use them.’
Sophie led him up a wide stone staircase on to a terrace that was being set up for the reception to one side of the château’s impressive main entrance. Miles of fairy lights were being strung and dozens of chic pale oak, cross-back chairs positioned around small tables on the flagstones. The space on the other side of the entrance was being swept and Sophie knew that the small stage under construction at the far end was for the live band that would be rocking the after-party.
Florence was on a ladder beside the enormous wooden doors, making final touches to a floral archway that framed the top of the entranceway – a delicate mix of ferns as a backdrop to white roses, peonies and gypsophila. A woman with a long dark braid that reached her waist was reaching up to hand Florence a chain of tiny blue flowers.
‘The something blue?’ Sophie asked. ‘Hi, Tilly. I was about to call and find out where you were.’
Mathilde Pascoe was her personal assistant, expert in everything romantic and passionate about weddings but, more importantly, her closest friend.
‘These are forget-me-nots,’ Tilly said, in her perfect English, softened by the music of her French accent. She picked up another chain to show Sophie. ‘Zara wants them woven into every floral arrangement, including her bouquet. Isn’t that adorable?’ Her smile was so happy it was impossible not to smile back. Until Sophie heard the whirr of a camera’s shutter beside her.
‘Don’t put me in any of your photos, please,’ Sophie’s tone was crisp as she swerved to face Raven. ‘And make sure you get written permission from anyone else. Tilly, this is Raven. He’s doing a feature, possibly forVogue Weddings.’
‘Waouh!’ Tilly’s eyes widened.
‘It’s a lovely photo of you both.’ Raven turned the camera towards them. ‘Can I persuade you to let me put in a tiny cameo? People love the behind-the-scenes snippets and the secrets – like hidden flowers with a message.’
Itwasa lovely photo. The forget-me-nots were in clear focus. Sophie and Tilly were a little blurred but not enough to dim the bond evident in the smile they were sharing.
They shared another glance with the kind of silent communication they had been enhancing for years. Tilly gave a tiny shrug. It was for Sophie to choose.
‘Maybe,’ Sophie conceded. ‘But there are more important things to get on with right now. Like taking this champagne to Zara’s suite before it starts getting warm.’
It was cooler and darker as they stepped inside the ancient entrance hall to the château. Both Sophie and Raven blinked as their eyes adjusted to the change in light.
Raven lifted his camera to take a photograph of a stone fireplace that was filled with dozens of white candles, tall and short, fat and thin, enclosed by a lake of tealights on the hearth.
‘They’ll look even better when they’re lit up for the cocktails in here later,’ Sophie said.
‘You’ve been doing this for a long time,’ Raven said. ‘Nearly ten years?’
‘Yes.’ That anniversary would be a milestone. The ten-year anniversary that would precede it was not one that Sophie wanted to think about, however.
‘I’ve been googling you,’ Raven said as he followed her towards the foot of the grand staircase. ‘You’ve got quite a name in the wedding-planning business already. That clever little purple van of yours with the sunflowers and lavender decals pops up first every time you add Provence and weddings into a search bar. Covering an event that’ll be seen by the millions of Zara Beaumont’s followers is going to make you even more famous.’
Something in his tone made the hairs on the back of Sophie’s neck prickle. Or was it what he’d said? He’d been researchingher?
Why?
Sophie didn’t do interviews, didn’t engage with social media presence on a personal platform and the information on her website was strictly business-based. Her preference to stay in the background might be deemed old-fashioned but her brand was growing organically, with the weddings themselves enough of an advertisement. And Raven’s article was supposed to be about this wedding. About someone who was already on the way to being as much of a household name as Martha Stewart and poised to become even more influential thanks to her marriage to the sole heir of one of America’s rich-list families.
How much sleuthing had this stranger done? Enough to sift through the thousands of people who shared her very common name and uncover something that had only made local news, long enough ago that it should be at least partially shrouded by the mists of time? Something that was probably guaranteed to spike anyone’s interest?
No…
She didn’t want to be dragged into the past. She didn’t want to think about Tom. Or Hannah. Or Luc.
Especiallynot Luc.
No…
She could feel rather than hear that repeated word of denial that held an edge of desperation this time. It was tight around her chest, making it impossible to take her next breath. As she always did in moments that threatened to be overwhelming, Sophie touched the small heart-shaped diamond that hung around her neck on a fine gold chain – the only reminder of a lost dream that she could still touch. She had the feeling that he did, indeed, know too much and Raven’s next words confirmed that fear.
