Marnie smiled. “I’m not saying it’s asignor anything, but it can’t be a coincidence that they arrived and then darkness followed. Maybe it’s not even Sasha. Maybe it’s the wedding planners themselves who’re going to be the problem.”
But Tom shook his head, giving his mother another fond smile. “Mom, relax.” He stood taller, pushing his hands into his pockets. “The wedding planners aren’t going to be a problem. I promise.”
Chapter 3: The Fool
Ten minutes into lunch with Sasha and her prospective mother-in-law, and Ari was just about ready to admit defeat. Discomfort sat heavily in the air, weighted down by Sasha’s tightly leashed fury and the groom’s mother’s all-too-evident disapproval. Ari sipped at the glass of white wine that had been put in front of her, trying to settle the knot of unease that was slowly growing in her stomach.
Sebastian was trying his best, Ari knew. He sat beside Sasha, elegant and poised, playing his role of English gentleman with aplomb. He was all charm and suave style and simpering compliments for the bride, who licked them up like a show pony at the trough. Sebastian knew how to play Sasha — knew to be friendly enough to win her trust, while being just distant enough to leave her wanting more. Watching Sebastian charm a bride was like watching an artist at work, Ari always thought, but today his work was spoiled, soured by a disapproving mother-in-law and an inexplicably absent groom.
“I’m sorry,” Sasha apologised in her sharp American twang. “I told him to be here. He knew how important this meeting was to me. I can’t believe he’s late.”
“Oh, darling, it’s nothing,” Sebastian purred with a wave of his hand. “You know, sometimes it’s better if the groomisn’there. Quite often they just get in the way. Besides, Mum’s here, isn’t she?”
He gestured to the groom’s mother, and Ari saw Marnie stiffen, her face like stone.
“Mum?” she repeated icily.
Sebastian reddened. “Well, yes. In Britain, we always refer to the mother of the bride or groom as Mum. It’s a compliment, in a way.”
“Well, you aren’t in Britain now.” Marnie’s voice was as sharp as the wine in Ari’s glass. “So I would appreciate it if you addressed me as Mrs Somerset.”
Marnie Somerset.Something in Ari’s mind stirred, the edge of a memory within grasp, and she frowned, staring at Marnie openly.
“Can I help you?” Marnie asked her, and now it was Ari’s turn to blush.
“Oh, no, it’s nothing—”
“You’ve been quiet,” Marnie mused, still staring at Ari with hard, unflinching eyes. “You let him do all the talking.” She glared openly at Sebastian.
“Well, he’s the client manager,” Ari explained.
Marnie only stared at her harder, and Ari squirmed in her seat. “He’s the client manager? Fine. So, tell me, what do you do in this...” she gestured to the air between Ari and Sebastian “. . . outfit?”
Ari cleared her throat. “I’m the artistic director,” she said weakly. “I plan the visuals of the wedding. Colour scheme, aesthetics, table settings...”
“Really?” Marnie asked her coolly. “And what does Sasha, the bride, plan in all of this? Does she get a say at all?”
“Oh, yes,” Ari replied instantly, sitting up taller. Where her work was concerned, she was always the consummate professional. “I take all my cues from the bride. Quite often, brides know exactly what they want for their wedding, they just don’t know how to make that vision a reality. That’s where I step in. I take their ideas and source all the pieces, putting them together like a puzzle to make a perfect day.”
“I see,” Marnie said slowly, nodding. “And you’ve seen the woods now, I take it? What did you, as theartistic director, make of them?”
“Well, it’s a raw setting for a wedding.” Ari took another sip of wine. “But I think we have a plan that might work. Of course, I’d like to speak to Sasha and...” She trailed off awkwardly, suddenly unable to say the groom’s name under Marnie’s critical eyes. It was ridiculous, she told herself. It had been eight years.
“Tom,” Marnie filled the silence icily, and Ari blushed.
“Yes, of course,Tom. I’d like to speak with them both and get a feel for how they see their special day.”
“I want it big,” Sasha piped up. “I want the best of the best. Exquisite food, a French patisserie cake, champagne and a bespoke Luis De León dress on my back.”
Sebastian spluttered into his wine, and Ari shot him a look. “You want a De León dress?” he asked, wiping his mouth, and Sasha nodded.
“Of course,” Sasha replied emphatically. “Luis De León is the biggest wedding dress designer of our generation. I told you — I want the best of the best. And Luis De León is the best.”
Sebastian seemed to recover himself, sliding a hand across the table, taking hold of Sasha’s fingers. “Yes, my darling, but Luis De León has a four-year waiting list for bespoke wedding gowns. If you’re determined to have one of his dresses, we could probably alter one of his collection gowns for you, but a bespoke dress is quite impossible.”
“But I want one.” Sasha pouted. “I’ve already seen one I like, in fact, and I know you’ve worked with him... look...” Sasha drew out a copy of FrenchVoguefrom her bag.
Ari groaned internally. She knew that magazine, and knew exactly which article Sasha had read. It was a four-page spread on Luis’s gowns, modelled by the newest supermodel, with photographs by Stella Snow. She remembered Luis coming back from the shoot, casually mentioning to her and Sebastian that he’d mentioned their business in the magazine, at which point Sebastian had exploded.
