“The thing is, Nicole is an artist, not a florist,” she says, her voice inflecting up at the end of the sentence, as if it’s a question. “That’s why the events she does are so different. Everyone can tell that it’s not just anyone who does the flowers, if you know what I mean. It shouldn’t be done in a rush, with money thrown at it. It really is an art form.” She looks at Cordelia sympathetically. “Sorry,Cordy,don’t mean to rub salt in the wound.”
“Nicole is certainly different,” I say, glancing nervously at Cordelia, whose jaw is clenched.
Quite frankly, I’m coming round to understanding why Cordelia told Tom to fuck off when he filled her in on the news of who was coming to dinner. She had a meltdown, insisting that her mum call the evening off. She was on the verge of tears as she ranted about it. I wondered how I would feel if Mum and Dad had Graham Slater over for dinner, and knew immediately: sick. I kind of got it.
Annabel is particularly unpleasant and I’m not sure her sister is much better.
The Earl and Countess of Derrington seem nice but they’re alittle pompous and self-important, and meeting them has allowed me to appreciate just how impeccably mannered Lord and Lady Meade are. They may be a little closed off, but having spent a day at Dashwell Hall, I can understand why you might have some walls up. It would be difficult to know who to trust when you live in a place like this. But they’re so welcoming that I’ve started to relax and feel at home, despite being in a stately home so grand that earlier I got lost on the way to dinner and ended up in a random courtyard I didn’t know existed. Luckily, a man who introduced himself as one of the chefs discovered me and pointed me in the right direction.
This afternoon, I told the marquess his house was really something, and he launched into a wonderful explanation of its history and heritage that continued until Jonathan strolled in with a book and asked me if we’d got to the bit in the story when Nicholas’s great-great-grandmother famously danced at a ball with her Irish wolfhound, causing plenty of society gossip about the state of her mind. I was drinking tea at the time and laughed so hard it went up my nose.
By the time Cordelia joined us after putting Tony away, everyone was in a lively mood and seemed excited to start discussing wedding plans. Lord and Lady Meade had put together a list of everything they thought we needed to do and had set things in motion by booking in tastings with available caterers next week.
“Now, we need to start thinking about a photographer,” Lord Meade said. “I’ve had a few recommendations and, Cordelia, you might want to contact them next week, too.”
“I was talking about your wedding with someone at work the other day,” I said, playing the role of enthusiastic friend, “and they mentioned we should see if Clio Vaughn is available! Aren’t you a fan, Cordelia? I think I remember you talking about her.”
“Clio Vaughn?” Cordelia repeated, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice. “Yes, I like her work.”
“Anyway, ignore this if it’s stupid, but I thought I might as well pop her an email to see if she’d do wedding photography and she was really keen! Sorry, I didn’t mean to jump the gun and email her behind your back. In the moment, I thought I might as well,” I said apologetically. “I was emailing some other photographers about a work event and I suppose I was in event-planning mode!”
“Don’t apologize. That’s wonderful, Emily,” Lady Meade gushed.
Cordelia hadn’t said anything, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
“Isn’t she one of your favorite photographers?” Jonathan said excitedly, nudging Cordelia. “We might feature in one of her future exhibitions!”
“Shall I get back to her and say you’d like to meet up?” I asked casually, pretending I hadn’t already booked in a meeting.
“If you wouldn’t mind, thank you,” Lady Meade said.
“Very thoughtful of you, Emily!” Lord Meade enthused, smiling gratefully at me. “Now, Cordelia, on to the car you want for the wedding…”
As the conversation moved on, Cordelia kept her eyes fixed on the table in front of her, determined not to give me a hint of gratitude. But after that she did seem to be in a slightly better mood, a little more positive and involved with the wedding chat.
Of course, that was all destroyed the moment Tom came to join the group and divulged our earlier meeting with Annabel and Georgia. When Cordelia was done telling him where to go, she told her parents she no longer intended to join us for dinner.
I assume Jonathan reasoned with her after she stormed off, because she was there with him, dressed and ready to greet the guests as they arrived. I also noticed Lady Meade go over to her as she came downstairs and gently plead with her to be on her“best behavior.” “Don’t let them get to you,” she said quietly. “Rise above it, darling.”
Now I know why that advice was necessary.
“I’m sure the flowers at your wedding will be stunning,” I say to Annabel, hoping to conclude the conversation on Nicole Percy.
“It’s so much fun planning a wedding, isn’t it, Cordy?” she continues, Cordelia flinching every time she shortens her name. “Although now that yours is going to be a bit of a rush you may miss out on some of the fun. What a pity you can’t enjoy it.”
The cattiness is so blatant, I’m tempted to look for cameras to check we’re not on an episode ofMade in Chelsea,with producers encouraging Annabel to provoke Cordelia as openly as possible. I consider escaping this toxic conversation and glance round the room for an excuse. Georgia is laughing loudly over something Tom has said and is touching his arm. He catches my eye and I look away, heat rising to my cheeks.
“What does your fiancé do, Annabel?” I ask, hoping to seem deep in conversation and not distracted by Tom at all.
“He’s in property,” she informs me. “It’s a shame he couldn’t be here this weekend, but he’s so busy at the moment. We’re off on holiday next week, though, thank goodness.”
“Ah, that will be nice,” I say, wondering if she’s noticed that Cordelia has yet to utter a word. “Are you in property, too?”
“No, I’m an artist,” she reveals, put out by my having to ask.
“Wow! What sort of art do you do?”
“I work with charcoal,” she informs me, flicking her hair behind her shoulder. “I specialize in portraits.”
