something was eating the other man up. Martin dropped his gaze and turned back to the door.
‘Shall I show you around, before the guests start to arrive?’ he said, over his shoulder.
‘Absolutely,’ Nikos said, strolling out to the grand hallway, where the faces of various English rose aristocrats in grand gilt frames hung around the walls, no doubt wondering what the hell had happened to the old house now that the Lopez Hotel Group had transformed it.
‘Yes, it’s great to see you,’ Martin said, stepping alongside him now like a best buddy. ‘And I’m really grateful that you’ve agreed to present an award. We sold an extra fifty seats when it was announced yesterday.’
Nikos shrugged. ‘It’s no problem. I was on the way back from Sydney when I got the call.’
‘Visiting your mother? How is she?’
They were at the top of a wide sweep of carpeted stairs, no doubt a prime photo opportunity for the hundreds of brides who used Maybury Hall.
‘Ah, she’s OK. Thanks for asking. She doesn’t know me any more but she seems quite happy, and they look after her well.’
His monthly visits to Sydney were the one fixed item in his calendar. He knew they wouldn’t last for ever...
‘So how’s business?’ he asked, keen to change the subject.
They walked down the stairs, as staff carrying huge displays of flowers and cakes criss-crossed over the black-and-white floor beneath them.
‘I’m getting out soon,’ said Martin, with a mirthless laugh. ‘This is the last sponsorship I’m doing. I want to end on a high. The hotels are doing well, but the wedding industry’s being choked to death by overseas competition.’
‘China?’
Martin nodded. ‘It’s hitting the dress side worst of all. With the volume they can produce overseas, there’s just no profit margin for the little guy. Unless it’s high-end, bespoke, but even then it’s tough.’
‘People will always want to get married,’ said Nikos. People other than himself.
‘Yes, but it’s not what it was. Even the ones that have been on the go for years are feeling it. Another one of them is just about to hit the buffers, and it’s one of my old pals who once owned it. It’s his daughter’s now.’
They rounded the corner of the staircase and fell into step walking on through the lobby. All around, the paraphernalia of an industry built on hormones and fiction—love and marriage. A sham that left Nikos stone cold.
‘It’s a pity, because she is a lovely girl—at least she was last time I saw her. But she’s out of her depth.’
‘As in overinvested, or out of her depth because she doesn’t have the skill?’
‘A bit of both probably. Which makes it awkward. She’ll be here tonight and I’ve got a feeling she’s going to make a pitch. And I don’t have the heart to tell her she’s the problem.’
‘Yes, that’s a tough one,’ said Nikos, who had his own tough message to deliver to Martin, as soon as they got the chance to talk in private.
They turned the corner of the hall and stood on the threshold. Tables, heavy in white linen, spread off in all directions; the band at the side of the stage was tuning up a series of mismatched sounds.
Soon the movers and shakers of the wedding world would all be here to congratulate themselves on their achievements in this phony industry, and he, the man least likely to marry ever again, would be presenting one of them with a cube of etched Perspex that would wind up displayed on a shelf somewhere. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
Suddenly screens at either side of the stage flickered to life with images of Titian-haired brides in long flowing dresses running through fields of corn. That was it—he’d had enough.
‘So what’s the schedule?’ he asked, folding his arms and facing Martin. ‘Because we’ve got our own difficult conversation to have. And I want to make sure we’ve got enough time.’
‘As soon as this is over. I promise you.’
‘I’ll wait until ten. We talk from then until this thing is finished. And then I’m leaving, Martin. And I won’t be back.’
A shadow fell across Martin’s face. His eyes darted furtively down and back up.
‘I hear you,’ he said, stepping closer. ‘But it’s not just me who’s trying to get to the bottom of this. There are some people Maria was involved with that are very unhappy, Nikos. People that you know well.’
As if he’d felt a blow, Nikos flinched. Hair stood up on the back of his neck. Someone did a microphone check and a short burst of static screeched through the space.
‘People that you know well.’
He’d thought this was all dead. Buried, with his wife. But it wasn’t. It was still there, always there. Shadows that didn’t fade in the warm afternoon sunshine or fresh summer mornings. Dreadful, dark shadows that never went away, no matter where he went or what he did.
‘OK, Martin,’ he said, dredging up his words, like hauling on armour. He stood tall, he breathed deep, he squared his shoulders. There was no option; there was never any option. But his mother was safe, so nothing else mattered.
He looked at the other man. It wasn’t his fault. There was no one to blame but himself.
‘We’ll talk later,’ he said. ‘We’ll get this sorted. They won’t bother you.’
He patted Martin’s shoulder as he passed, and made his way through the tables, scattered like giant confetti on the ground.
* * *
Two miles east of Maybury Hall, in the pretty market town of Lower Linton, Jacquelyn Jones, owner of Ariana Bridal, was also getting ready to attend the Wedding Awards, and with almost the same mix of dread and trepidation.
As designer-in-chief of the bridalwear boutique that had occupied the same spot on the main street for the past fifty years, she could have been going to collect an award. Her father had managed to do just that, scooping five top awards in the past two decades, but that was before she had taken over from him, and before the business had stopped turning such healthy profits.
No, she was going there tonight to get money. Or she was going to die trying. Because if she didn’t, the whole thing was going to fall apart, one stitch at a time.
But first she had to get rid of Barbara, who had just slipped in through the courtyard garden as Jacquelyn had been closing up for the evening. With five husbands in the bag, she was the boutique’s best, but also nosiest, customer. No doubt she had scented blood, or at least the high anxiety that Jacquelyn was trying to conquer as she arranged a vase of white arum lilies.
‘So you’re definitely going to the Wedding Awards at Maybury Hall tonight? Even though that snake-in-the-grass Tim Brinley will be there? Good for you! You go and show them all. It’s disgraceful. He should be struck off, not getting a blooming
