groom, two witnesses and the local register office?’ she offered hopefully.
Laura laughed, confident she was being teased. ‘I think Celebrity will want something a little more fairy tale than that!’
Oh, yes. Celebrity would want everything, up to and including her heart on her sleeve, which they were apparently ready to extract with a blunt knife. They couldn’t have been more obvious.
‘Just think what fun it will be,’ Laura continued. ‘Gorgeous clothes, fabulous food, all those special touches you’re so famous for. We’ve got some truly wonderful local exhibitors and you can totally let yourself go—’
‘Laura,’ she said, cutting in before this went any further. ‘I’m sorry, really, but I can’t do that.’
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Laura, stiff now, said, ‘I realise that there won’t be any big London names, Sylvie, but there’s no need to be quite that dismissive.’
Oh, good grief, she’d misunderstood. It wasn’t the exhibitors she was turning down. It was the whole nightmare scenario.
‘No …’ she began, but it was too late.
‘Your mother, if she were still with us—’
Sylvie lowered her head into her hand, knowing what was coming and helpless to stop it.
‘Lady Annika would be very disappointed to think that you’d let us down.’
No! No! No! Sylvie stuffed her fist into her mouth to stop the scream leaking out.
Josie, staring at her, mouthed the word, ‘Trouble?’
She just shook her head, unable to answer. This wasn’t trouble; this was the old girl network in full working order and, if nothing else would do it, the ‘old girls’ would play the guilt card without a second’s thought.
‘You may be an important businesswoman these days, but people still remember your family. Remember you. You’re a local girl and you have a duty to fly the flag for your town.’ As if aware that her attention was drifting, Laura pitched her voice at a level capable of cutting cold steel. ‘Forget your mother’s charity …’ oh, low blow! ‘… these people should be able to count on your support.’
The guilt card swiftly followed by the demands of noblesse oblige. Because, even when the noblesse had gone well and truly down the pan, the oblige just refused to quit.
Guilt and duty. The double whammy.
‘This feature wouldn’t just be fabulous PR for you, it would give some small designers a real chance to get noticed—’
Okay! Enough!
There was no need to lay it on with a trowel. Once the ‘your mother would be disappointed’ gambit had been played, Sylvie knew it was all over bar the shouting and, pulling herself together, she attempted to stem the flow.
‘Laura …’
‘Of course I don’t suppose you need PR these days—’
‘Laura!’
‘And, as for the fee Celebrity are offering the charity, well—’
‘Laura, don’t you ever read Celebrity?’
‘Well, no. It’s not my kind of thing. You won’t tell them, will you?’
‘No, but that’s not the point. If you ever read the thing, you’d know that the reason I can’t possibly do this is because I’m six months pregnant.’
‘Pregnant?’ Then, ‘I didn’t realise. When did you get married?’
Sylvie added ‘hurt’ to the range of expressions in Laura’s voice.
‘I didn’t, Laura. I’m not.’
‘Oh, well, that’s even better. You can really—’
‘No,’ she said quickly, anticipating what was coming next. ‘I can’t. I’m not getting married.’ Could this get any worse? ‘I just wanted a baby.’
Or better.
Because it was true.
Once she’d got over the shock, she’d realised that she did want this little girl. Desperately.
Laura, momentarily stumped, quickly recovered. ‘Oh, well, it doesn’t actually matter, does it? You don’t have to appear in the feature. No one would expect you to actually model something you’d chosen for yourself. Not before the wedding. Bad luck and all that? I’m sure Celebrity can organise a lookalike model.’
‘Do they have to? Couldn’t they find someone a little taller, a little thinner,’ she said, making a joke of it. Trying not to think what Tom McFarlane would make of it.
She’d expected him to call her. What she expected him to say, she didn’t dare think about. But she’d given him the option to walk away and he’d apparently taken it.
‘How much are Celebrity offering?’ she asked, refusing to dwell on it. Ignoring the hurt. And, certain that she’d won, Laura gave her the figure.
For a clutching-at-straws moment she’d hoped she might be able to cover the sum herself, buy her freedom. But, even as she’d clutched, she’d known that it was never going to happen.
This was about more than money.
It was about raising the profile of the charity that her mother had founded. A chance to show a national audience what they’d achieved, maybe even encourage women to set up branches in other areas; charities, like every other organization, had to grow or die. About giving local artists and craftsmen a national stage on which to air their talent.
And it was for her too. Refusing to hide.
Settled in her mind, Sylvie drew a deep breath and, burning all her boats, said, ‘Actually, Laura, that’s not enough.’
‘What isn’t enough?’
‘The fee Celebrity are offering you. It isn’t enough.’
‘It isn’t?’ Laura asked, surprised out of her disapproval as she was thrown on the defensive. ‘I thought it was very generous.’
‘I’m sure they told you that, but for this feature …’ for Sylvie Duchamp Smith giving a wedding master-class, for another excuse to rake over old bridal coals and speculate on the identity of the father of her child ‘… they’ll pay twice that.’
‘No!’
‘Oh, yes!’ The magazine had picked up the tabs for a couple of the weddings she’d organised and she knew what she was talking about. If they wanted to fill their pages with her personal fantasy, the charity her mother had founded was going to be paid the going rate. ‘You can take my word for it.’
‘Oh,
