‘You are not.’ Mum tips the contents into the bin. ‘Children in Africa are starving. Have an apple.’
‘Who eats apples rather than biscuits?’
‘A girl who’s single, childless, and over thirty,’
‘Mum! You’ve just been telling me how crap men are!’
‘Well, yes,’ she agrees. ‘But I’ve seen the sweetest hat in Philip Treacey. It’s perfect for the mother of the bride. And there was the cutest little baby’s bonnet. You know how much I want grandchildren. Time’s a ticking.’ She tapped her watch as if it was my biological clock on her wrist.
I slosh coffee into spotty Emma Bridgewater mugs. ‘It’s not even a year since Patrick and I broke up.’
Mum places a hand on her heart. ‘I still have nightmares about having to return all those presents. Great Auntie Ethel was really upset.’
Sod Auntie Ethel. I was pretty upset myself.
‘I’m not ready for a relationship yet,’ I say. But I plan to be in one by Christmas, I add silently. What could be better than holding hands with someone special while listening to carol singers and watching the snowflakes drift to earth? That’s my idea of heaven.
My mother tuts. ‘When you fall off the horse, what do you do, Robyn?’
‘Call an ambulance?’ I say with a wicked grin.
‘Darling. Do try and make an effort. You get back in the saddle, of course! And at your age, you get back asap. And refuse to sign a pre-nup. Just like I do.’
This is no exaggeration. My mother, currently Anna Dexter, has been married and divorced no less than three times. To my great relief she’s taking a break from nuptials recently, preferring to go on luxury cruises where she’s wooed by men called Luigi who have Tango tans, hairy chests, and large wallets. She’s the only person I know who finds Michael Winner attractive.
So I think I can be forgiven for not taking relationship advice from her.
For a moment, I think about meeting Jonathan Broadhead yesterday. I see again those amazing hyacinth eyes framed by inky lashes all starry with rain and feel the hard contours of his body when he pulled me beneath his raincoat. He was definitely attractive and not a hint of fake tan.
He was also married.
More proof that all the good ones really are taken.
I’m saved from discussing my love life any further by Hester Dunnaway attacking the intercom. I buzz her in without a word and my stomach seesaws as I prepare to greet my former boss.
Imagine Cruella De Vil’s meaner older sister and you’ve got a pretty good picture of Hester Dunnaway. Groomed and plucked and waxed and suctioned to within an inch of her life, she looks like a desiccated skeleton; albeit one dressed in Prada and with Chanel-tipped talons. It costs a lot of money to look this well preserved so it’s just as well Hester is one of the most successful wedding planners in the country. And luckily she always has a keen junior to do the donkey work because keeping her aging body embalmed is a full-time occupation.
I should know. I may have learned an awful lot from working with Hester but she certainly got her money’s worth. You haven’t known telephone hell until you’ve spent six hours calling every zoo in Europe to secure the services of twenty pink flamingos. Way more than a year on and I still have the strongest Pavlovian impulse to jump to my feet and grab the telephone when in her presence.
‘Hello, Robyn,’ says Hester, looking me up and down. ‘How are you?’
‘Good, thanks,’ I smile. ‘And you?’
‘Never busier. My latest wedding’s going to feature in Hello! It’s very high profile and totally secret.’
There’s a pause while she waits for me to ask whose it is. No way am I going to give her the satisfaction. I’d rather eat Poppy’s dog food.
But my mother has no such restraint. ‘Who?’
‘I really can’t divulge, darling, but suffice it to say that the budget’s hundreds of thousands.’
A poisoned arrow of envy scores a bullseye in my heart. What I wouldn’t give to have that kind of money to play with. What a fantastic wedding I could plan!
And not a flipping flamingo in sight either.
‘Any big weddings coming up?’ Hester asks me.
This is where I’d love to say that every WAG in England is beating a path to my door but she’ll know I’m fibbing.
‘Nothing huge,’ I hedge. ‘Yet.’
‘Oh dear,’ sighs Hester. ‘I did warn you. You have some lovely ideas, Robyn, but you’re hardly in the same league as Catch the Bouquet. Still, I’m sure there’s some satisfaction in helping people with tight budgets.’
‘Robyn’s really modest,’ my mother pipes up. ‘She’s meeting Saffron Scott on Friday to pitch for the job of planning her wedding.’
Hester tears her attention away from admiring her reflection in my Brabantia bin and gives me a patronising smile. ‘Oh, how sweet of them to ask you. It will be a fantastic wedding. I can hardly wait to discuss my plans with Saffron and Fergus.’
‘You’re pitching too?’ I ask, my heart sinking.
‘Of course.’ Hester is triumphant.
Oh God, how can I compete with Hester? I’ll never get the job now.
‘The pitch will be wonderful experience for you, Robyn,’ she continues. ‘But don’t get your hopes up too much. The Scotts can afford the very best.’
‘So I’ll have to convince them I’m the best,’ I say, dodging her insult.
Hester smiles. The smile of a crocodile before it gobbles you up.
‘Your ideas are sweet, darling, and I’ve taught you a lot. But don’t think you can run before you can walk. And don’t think that your ideas will be better than mine.’
I am about to stick up for myself but the discussion is over as far as she’s concerned, and Hester turns to my mother. ‘Ready, Anna? I’ve booked the table for twelve-thirty.’
I stand seething by the window long after they zoom off in Hester’s pink Mercedes. Suddenly all my ideas for Saffron’s wedding seem trite and clumsy. The mood boards are clichéd, the themes are too obvious. How can I possibly compete with someone who flies in flamingos? She’ll probably come up with some amazing winter scenario complete with an ice palace the size of Windsor Castle and Jack Frost to officiate.
But I can do better than that. I know I can.
‘Two glasses of dry white wine and a packet of pork scratchings.’ Gideon deposits
