‘With all due respect, Nic, we’re talking brides here, not harbour tugs. In this industry it’s experience, capability, and a huge capacity for hard work that are the keys to success. Paper rarely comes into it.’ Her sniff couldn’t be any more condescending. ‘I’m completely confident that Milla will deliver all the way from the save-the-date cards to the going-home taxis.’
Nic tilts his head. ‘Save the what?’
I jump in to explain to cover for Jess’s eye roll. ‘They’re cards you send to the guests in advance. But first you need a guest list. And with your tight schedule you’ll have to sort the dress and the caterers, like, yesterday.’
‘Okay.’ From Nic’s bemused stare it’s clear he has no idea about any of it. He swallows and as he speaks his voice is low and dry. ‘Getting this right is the biggest responsibility of my entire life. I can’t afford to gamble here.’
I have one chance to show him I’m up to this; if he’s this desperate for some super-executive I’ll have to haul out my most sophisticated side. I sit up really straight in my chair and take a huge breath to try to make myself as tall as Phoebe, but all that happens is my merino knit jumper gets really tight so my boobs stick so far out Mr Trendell’s eyes almost pop out.
So I abandon that and concentrate on my lower half. I try to cross and uncross my legs a couple of times like Phoebe does so effortlessly, but with shorter legs it’s a lot less elegant. In fact, it isn’t working at all. In the end, all that happens is my pencil skirt rides up really high and ends up like a tourniquet around my thighs, and worse still, I have a horrible feeling that Nic got yet another unscheduled view of my pants. By the time I’ve realigned the split in my pleather skirt, his face is fully buried in his hands.
After what feels like forever, he looks up and blows out a breath. ‘Cards on the table, my ideal person specification would be someone more like you, Jess.’
Jess looks as if she might explode. ‘However much you’re willing to throw at the problem, Nic, you couldn’t afford me.’
This is my time to bow out gracefully. ‘I know I could deliver you a wonderful day, Mr Trendell, but if you’ve set your heart on someone with a stack of certificates, that’s obviously not me.’
He pulls a face. ‘Thank you for your honesty, Milla.’
As I stand up and collect my squishy velvet bag from the floor, I’m kicking myself again. As two faces turn to me their mouths are hanging open.
‘When you do find her though, don’t hang around. Get straight on to choosing a venue; July is a popular time.’ I have no idea why I’m still going, but I throw in a last thought for sisterly solidarity. ‘And remember, modern hens definitely prefer spa days to blow-up willies. Oh, and good luck … you’ll certainly need lots of that!’
I have the whole length of The Style File to listen to my pointy heels clicking on the wooden boards and thank my lucky stars that it’s nothing to do with me anymore. Then I remember I’ve just waved goodbye to a whole wodge of cash. And possibly the attic flat too. But at least I’ve saved myself from six months of wall-to-wall weddings. And I’ll be saved from seeing Nic Trendall ever again. If that last thought is making me feel even a little bit disappointed, I won’t be admitting it. Even to myself.
MARCH
Chapter 6
Saturday, one week later.
St Aidan school gym.
Shark attacks and second chances.
‘You know the best thing about tonight, Milla?’
It’s a week later and Poppy’s shouting at me as we cross the car park to the school, and I’m taking a wild guess and yelling back at her. ‘The roller skates?’
She’s shaking her head at me. ‘It’s that getting this last-minute request for wedding help means you can get straight on with the next job. And wave picky Mr Trendell and his arsey attitude out to sea.’
We both know there’s no comparison between this job and the one I spectacularly failed to clinch last week, but it’s nice of her to say. As for how much I let the side down with that, so far no one’s made me feel bad about it. Jess just said in a very matter-of-fact way that my confidence needed a reboot and we’d talk about it later. Although, I have no idea what she means by that because this is nothing to do with confidence. It’s back to the age-old stumbling block – me not ever being good enough to match up to expectations due to not having qualifications. However hard Phoebe worked at making me just like her, in reality people can tell the difference between the tower of power she was and the squashed-up version that’s me. And Phoebe never missed a chance to point out my abysmal lack of paperwork. And now it’s tripped me up again.
I mean, maybe I didn’t want the job in any case. But despite Nic implying I’m a lightweight, I know I could have done it standing on my head with a blindfold on. At least this way I’m saved from having him looking down on me.
I’m shouting back to Poppy now. ‘And remind me whose wedding it is tonight?’ As we’re pretty much crashing their party, it might be useful to know.
‘Dave and Betty, better known locally as Danny and Sandy. She’s head of Year 12, and the whole sixth form is invited. That’s why they’ve gone with the High School theme and they’re having the party here. But they’re from further along the coast so there won’t be too many people here we know.’ If this is her way of reassuring me we’re not going to run into Nic Trendell, I’m happy to cross that off my worry list.
I have to admit as we bounce along beside excited hordes of girls and women in their full, brightly coloured skirts, and guys flicking their Elvis quiffs, it’s a long way from the quiet Saturday evening I’d anticipated.
Poppy’s best friend, Immie, has also been roped in, and she jabs me in the ribs. ‘And as you’ve kindly volunteered as designated driver, Milla, expect Pops and me to cut loose!’
Immie looks after the holiday cottages at Daisy Hill Farm where Poppy lives with Rafe. I’ve known her my whole life too and she’s always been the same – as wide as she is tall, telling it like it is. Taking on the world for her friends, while drinking Cornwall dry and whooping it to the max – the same way she’s stepped in tonight. Although it sounds like leaving the dads in charge at home has gone to her head. If she’s whirling her Barbour jacket in the air this early, we could all be in trouble.
There’s another jab from Immie. ‘You do know your van’s getting more attention than those swanky American cars parked by the entrance, Milla.’
I laugh. ‘There’s no hiding it, I’m a driving advert for matrimony wherever I go.’ More’s the pity.
