Hannah squinted at the spreadsheet in front of her, adding notes next to the new batch of names Joe had just sent her for the wedding guest list. It was Sunday morning – only half past eight – and, by rights, she should be tucked up in bed with the massive cup of coffee she was clutching.
As it was, she was bleary-eyed, cross-legged on her Ikea sofa, laptop perched on a squashy, striped cushion as she carefully copied and pasted information. She needed to record first names, last names, email addresses and each invitee’s plus-one status in the correct columns of her mini database, so she could create a new batch of ‘save the date’ e-invites.
Joe had initially grumbled about wanting hard copy invitations on heavy card: thick, creamy things embossed with gold lettering, lovingly produced by some posh Bond Street stationer. In the first of several lectures she’d delivered so far during the wedding planning period, Hannah had sternly pointed out the folly of using snail mail for anything, given the speed at which she needed to work. In the end, she’d sold Joe on a password-protected, bespoke wedding website that would contain all the information guests needed – as well as fully digitising the process of collecting RSVPs, plus-one names and all dietary requirements.
Another advantage of this approach was the flexibility it offered, which had already proved useful since the number of people set to attend the wedding had crept upconsiderablysince Joe sent Hannah his original enquiry. At her future brother-in-law’s behest, she had now sent four separate tranches of placeholder invitations and received a total of 142 affirmative responses. Of the confirmed attendees, she reckoned fewer than forty were Ed’s nominations, and this troubled her a little – but she hadn’t had the chance to check in with him about it yet.
This morning’s new flurry of save-the-dates might take the guest list up to 150, and Hannah’s stomach clenched as she realised she was going to need to cut Joe off at some point. The longer the guest list became, the harder securing a venue was going to be. Stomach clenching morphed into full-on gut churning as she forced herself to look directlyatthe venue problem, which she’d given herself just another forty-eight hours to solve. Beyond this, she’d need to consider hiring a local field, then either renting or – god forbid –purchasinga massive marquee. Then she’d have to look at the issue of catering, which would be seriously complicated, not to mention costly, if the wedding became some kind of outdoor festival, miles away from the nearest proper kitchen. For all Joe’s insistence that every penny of his mad budget could be spent, Hannah hated waste; it wasn’t in her nature to throwmoney at a problem if it was possible to solve it any other way.
She pressed send on the handful of emails she’d prepared, then sipped from her steaming mug. At least she’d made progress in other ways since the engagement party just over a week ago. She had her favourite florist, Gloria, on the case with sourcing a selection of blooms for the big day: ivory roses, baby’s breath, white and green ranunculi and her favourite anemones, ‘Mistral Panda’. These blooms were hard to come by but worth the splurge, with soft, delicate white petals and bruisy black centres. The monochrome colour scheme the grooms had picked was a boon: effortlessly elegant, and a look that would slot seamlessly into any setting. Hannah had also ordered bridesmaid dresses for Claire and Livi: simple black wrap gowns in a heavy silk jersey that could be tied in a multitude of ways to suit the wearer. Her own dress, she’d been informed, would be tailored along with the grooms’ and best man’s suits. Joe had been approached by an up-and-coming menswear designer whose garments he’d worn before, and had agreed to accept custom-made wedding clothes in exchange for outfit credits.
Hannah had discovered this quid pro quo wouldn’t only apply to social media posts about the wedding, but also to the multipage spread that was slated to run inHELLO!magazine the week after the event. Ed had assured Hannah he’d come round to the idea, and had sounded serene enough when he told her about it that she hadn’t questioned his judgement. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help wondering whether he’d fully thought through signing up for so much exposure. Ed’s laid-back, unflappable approach to almost everything had plenty of advantages – not least, she imagined, the ability to remain calm while dealing with scores of stroppy teenagers. On the flipside, his tendency to focus on best- rather than worst-case scenarios meant he didn’t spot problems on the horizon the way Hannah always had.
Suit and dress fittings were set to take place in a couple of weeks, initial body measurements and design ideas having been exchanged in advance. Hannah felt a frisson she wrote off as nervousness at the thought of being in the same room as Jude again. She wouldn’t have admitted it out loud, but her feelings towards him had softened since they’d first crossed paths in Sheffield. As per her promise to Ed – and then The Stairwell Agreement – she’d set aside her boiling anger, letting it simmer down to something like lingering indignation. She told herself she retained all rights to detest Jude, but was taking the high road for the sake of getting shit done. In truth, however, there’d been a deeper shift in her perspective. After he intervened on her behalf with Marc, and following his explanation of the conference mess-up, Hannah had accepted she might need to redraw the picture she’d painted of him over the past few years. It was a mental image made up of broad brushstrokes, and – from a fresh vantage point – she could allow that she’d deliberately left out certain details.
He was funny in a way she’d almost forgotten; not bone dry, like Joe, but witty and self-deprecating. His comment about her appalling taste in men, which they were both aware swiped at their own failed relationship as well as her fling with Marc, had made her laugh in a way she hadn’t for months. Jude was fundamentally decent, too. She couldn’t discount the work he’d presented at the Sheffield event, a project that, when she’d briefly explained it to her mum, had seen Jane blinking away tears of pride. Yes, he’d blanked Hannah in a weak, anxious moment, but at Crockett & King, when it counted and the stakes were far higher, he’d stood up for her without hesitation.
Though Hannah couldn’t absolve Jude for cutting her out of his life, the momentary kick of anguish she’d felt at seeing him in conversation with Tamsin had also given her some insight as to the possible reason for it. She’d chosen not to think too hard about her reaction since. Similarly, the fact that she found him as physically appealing as ever was information she’d deemed superfluous to requirements. It wasn’t going to help anything over the next couple of months, so she’d resolved to keep it at arm’s length.
All told, Hannah had arrived at the realisation that, while Jude had hurt her terribly, she couldn’t commit to disliking him in the way she’d once imagined was possible. The sweep of their shared history was too broad – too deep – for her to disregard it. Put simply, she knew too much.
She shut her laptop, finished what remained of her coffee and decided that, since she was up and in a productive mood, she might as well go for a long run. It wasset to be hot later, but the morning was bright and balmy, the Derbyshire landscape calling to her in a way it sometimes did when her mind felt too busy.
Fifteen minutes later, as she began pounding her way up the hill that led out of the village, she breathed the fresh air and marvelled at the heights and colours of the peaks beyond. For a split second, she let herself wonder how Jude – who had fallen hard for this place, though he hadn’t been born here – could ever have stayed away so long.
A few hours later, having tackled a steady 10k, two loads of laundry and a gigantic cheese and pickle sandwich, Hannah emerged from the shower to hear her phone ringing.
The name displayed on the screen was one she hadn’t seen there in a while: Matt Hughes. They’d been colleagues at the golf club where Hannah first got her start in hospitality, and had always got on well. Mostly away at Cambridge during that time, Jude had scowled through the evening when she first introduced them, informing Hannah later that he suspected more than friendly feelings on Matt’s side. She’d thought this ridiculous until a drunken declaration from Matt at her leaving party two and a half years later put her right. In any case, there’d never been anything between them, and as far as she knew he was married these days. They still crossed paths a few times a year, as he now ran events at Renfrew Manor – a stunning stately home and venue for hire in the north-east of the county. Hannah had left Matt avoicemail more than a fortnight ago, but hadn’t dared hope he’d ring her back.
She swiped to answer the call. ‘Hello?’
‘Hannah! Long time, no speak. I have good news for you, if you’re still on the hunt for a last-minute wedding location.’
‘Seriously?’ Her heart leapt in her chest. She didn’t dare hope he meant Renfrew. It had been top of Ed’s wish list, and she’d told him weeks ago there was zero chance of them getting it. It was a huge mansion made of pale Derbyshire stone, a romantic hotch-potch of lavishly furnished eighteenth-century and Tudor wings set in sweeping grounds. Originally home to the Earls of Maltham, Renfrew was still owned by the same aristocratic family. Rather shrewdly to Hannah’s mind, they now lived in one half of the manor and ran the remainder as a tourist attraction and occasion space. Despite the eye-watering prices attached to Renfrew’s events packages, even the most basic, it was solidly booked up to three years in advance. Marrying couples journeyed from hundreds of miles away to tie the knot there, then stay at the inn on the outskirts of the estate.
‘I’ve just had a cancellation for September twentieth,’ Matt said. ‘They’d booked the painted hall for the ceremony, the courtyard for canapés and champagneandthe carriage house for the wedding breakfast. Plus, the inn has emptied out. All twenty rooms, including the bridal suite, suddenly available.’
‘No.’ Hannah was barely breathing.
‘Yes,’ Matt said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. ‘Do I take it this means you’re interested?’
‘Hell, yes!’ Hannah cried. ‘Oh my god, this isincredible. What do you need from me? Please, please don’t let this go to anyone else. That’s the date of my brother’s wedding – as you’ve probably realised, I’m planning it on very short notice. It’ll mean the world to him if I can get Renfrew.’
‘That’s the only snag – I need confirmation today if you want it. Paperwork and a fifty per cent deposit, too, I’m afraid. Jeremy said I could contact you first, since we’re old friends and he loves your work. But first thing tomorrow I’ll have to start ringing round everyone else on the waiting list, and there’s a couple I know of in Hertford who I’m pretty sure will snap this up.Shotgun wedding,’ he added, in a mock whisper.
Jeremy was the CEO of Renfrew Enterprises. Hannah knew of him, though they’d never met, and she thrilled at the thought that he’d been happy to give her first refusal on this. It was a vote of confidence she could only have dreamed of five years ago. She thought for a moment. Ed would be ready to say yes to this in a heartbeat, but committing to Renfrew would probably swallow at least a quarter of his and Joe’s budget – and that would be without any catering or drinks included. She needed them both to see it, to be sure, before signing on the dotted line.
‘What if I can get my grooms up to you today?’ she said to Matt. ‘Have you got capacity for someone to give us a quick tour? I know my brother would bite your hand off for this, but I want his fiancé to be fully on board, too.’
‘For you, I willmaketime,’ Matt said, ‘and fortunately today’s couple haven’t paid for exclusive use of the grounds, so you can have a good wander around and see the venue in action. Just drop me a message and let me know what time you’ll be arriving. I’ll have someone meet you, even if I’m tied up myself.’
‘Amazing,’ Hannah said. ‘Will do. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Matt.’
‘No thanks needed,’ he assured her. ‘Your reputation precedes you these days, as Jeremy said – and god knows you covered my arse enough times back in the day.’
Hannah laughed, remembering the morning she’d assured their old boss, David, that Matt had run to the nearest Tesco for more milk for the coffee machine. In fact, he’d been hiding in the staffroom after a tactical hangover chunder, trying to force down a can of Coke and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.
‘OK. Catch you in a bit,’ Hannah said, and rang off. She rapidly pulled on some clothes, then called her brother.
