But now I’m just wondering why I decided to wear wedges that are higher than Ben Nevis. They seemed like a really funky statement when I pulled them on but they’re hopeless for negotiating the tube and running through the London crowds. I may as well have worn stilts.
Won’t Hester love it if I’m late?
I dash across the Piazza, ignoring Karen Millen and the human robot man, and locate the cobbles of Floral Street. I find the building that’s home to the hive of celebrity news and gossip that is Scorching! magazine, and throw myself through the doors.
‘Robyn Hood,’ I pant to the glamorous receptionist whose make-up’s such a work of art that the Louvre is probably bidding for it. ‘I have an appointment with Ms Scott at eleven.’
‘Welcome to Scorching!,’ she says, hiding her smirk at my name. ‘Ms Scott’s in a meeting at the moment but she is expecting you. Please take a seat.’
I perch on what appears to be an art installation but is actually a chair and take a deep breath. OK, Robyn, you’ve made it. Calm and relaxed, remember? You can do this.
I glance down at my portfolio. It contains all the designs and plans for Saffron’s wedding that I’ve been slaving over. Gideon’s advice about following my own instincts breached the dam of my wedding planner’s block and for the last three days I’ve been sketching and creating themes from dawn to dusk.
But now my ideas seem so stupid. How did I think I could compete with Hester and plan A-list weddings? The closest I come to designer labels these days is drooling over them on eBay. And they’re all designers from back in the fifties!
I put the folder down, flexing fingers that tingle from holding it so tightly, and decide to check my make-up. I reach into my bag and fish around for my make-up; easier said than done when the bag leaps from my lap to spew its contents all over the floor.
‘Bugger!’ I say. ‘I mean, oops!’
I get on the floor and start cramming the detritus back in my bag, hoping that the reclaimed oak boards don’t ladder my stockings.
‘Robyn, you don’t need to get on your knees in my presence!’ drawls an amused voice.
My gaze travels up past a pair of Christian Louboutin boots, slender ankles and classic black Chanel suit, via this season’s must-have Mulberry bag, to a pair of beady gooseberry green eyes.
‘Hello, Hester,’ I say.
‘Darling,’ Hester drawls, ‘why on earth are you sprawled on the floor in such an unsightly manner?’
I cram the contents of my bag back inside as quickly as I can and scramble to my feet. ‘Yoga,’ I tell her. ‘Just a quick salute to the sun to supple up my mind!’
‘Yoga?’ echoes my ex-boss. ‘How very last season, Robyn. Anyone who is anyone is doing Pilates now. Sienna and Gwyneth both attend my class.’
What sort of world is it where even crawling around on the floor has to be done fashionably?
‘I’m pitching to Saffron,’ I say, smoothing down my skirt and arranging my face into an expression of yogic serenity.
‘Really?’ Hester smiles, or at least I think she does because Botox can do strange things to a woman’s facial expressions. ‘And you’ve dressed up especially. How sweet.’
Luckily for Hester I’m thirty-four, not four, which means that I don’t smack her in the face.
‘And you look very smart,’ I say, because she does.
Hester inclines her blonde head graciously, the hair so bouffant today that she looks like a coneless Mr Whippy. ‘Let me give you some advice,’ she says. Hester opens her portfolio and flips through myriad glossy pictures until settling on one. ‘In this game, experience and contacts are everything. How else would I be able to give people the weddings of their dreams?’
‘Er, by listening to them and giving them what they want?’ I ask.
But Hester isn’t paying attention to insignificant little old me. ‘How else,’ she continues, ‘would I have been able to devise a wedding such as this? A wedding of such grandeur and vision that Saffron was left speechless after my presentation?’
And she shoves the folder under my nose so that I have little choice but to look at the bright images. I’m not surprised that Saffron was speechless. I’m pretty lost for words myself.
The glossy scene before me is of a winter-wonderland-gone-crazy style wedding. It’s kind of like Christmas on 34th Street but even more so. Everyone is in a matching red and green costume with plenty of fur (probably real fox fur, I shudder) lining every possible hem. And the groom is even encased in what looks suspiciously like a Father Christmas outfit. The bride is seated on a reindeer and wearing an angel-wing contraption on her back, on which hundreds and hundreds of diamonds sparkle extravagantly. Dwarfs dressed as elves pass round drinks on trays and turn frozen somersaults. A giant ice sculpture is in pride of place below a ceiling covered with mistletoe and multi-coloured baubles the size of tractor wheels.
Hester has out-flamingoed herself, that’s for sure.
‘Goodness,’ I say weakly, thinking that if Saffron loves this I may as well just go home now. ‘That’s really something else, Hester.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Hester agrees, snapping the folder shut. ‘The angel wings alone are worth one hundred thousand pounds, and, between you and me, HRH is not averse to renting out Windsor Castle for the day. Stella McCartney is desperate to design the dress. Have you got anything planned that can compete with that?’
‘Err …’ I can safely say that I haven’t.
‘Oh, Robyn,’ Hester shakes her head sorrowfully. ‘Did you listen to anything I said when you worked for me? Didn’t I always tell you to stick to the golden rule – always go for the most expensive wedding possible? Nobody wants to be stingy when it comes to their big day.’
I think of the plans in my portfolio where I’ve opted for simplicity and elegance. If Saffron is crazy about Hester’s wild and wacky wedding on heat idea then I’ve blown it. Blown it, but at least kept to my principles, which are that a wedding isn’t about how much cash the planner can make but actually about a couple being in love and celebrating their union.
Maybe this naive notion is why Hester shops in designer boutiques and I’m second hand?
‘Anyway, darling,’ Hester says, ‘I can’t stay chatting all day. I need to source some fur and quinces.’ And, point made, she bids me a swift farewell and sails out of the office. The cloying scent of Poison lingers in her wake, making me feel sick.
At least I think it’s the Poison making me feel sick …
‘Robyn Hood,’ the receptionist calls. ‘Ms Scott will see you now. Go on up. Top of the stairs and first left.’
‘Thanks,’ I croak and I make my way up the stairs, clutching my portfolio in my cold and clammy fingers.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so worried in my life.
And since I was once engaged to Patrick McNicolas, that’s really saying something.
Luckily
