they say that, don’t you?’ Geena agreed, breaking into her thoughts. But then, dressing brides was her business so clearly she understood better than most.
‘It does help,’ Sylvie said. Then shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’ve planned too many “perfect” weddings that didn’t last.’
‘Think about the ones that have,’ she said, taking the shoe, looking at it. ‘This is totally gorgeous.’ She tried it on but it was too small and she handed it to Sylvie. ‘Go on, your feet are smaller than mine. Try it.’
Anything was better than looking at wedding dresses and the shoe was fabulous. She slipped it on and extended her foot. The colour glowed. A few small beads set amongst the rich embroidery caught the light and sparkled.
They both sighed.
‘I think we have a bit of a Cinderella moment here,’ Geena said with a grin. ‘Try the other one. Walk about …’ Then, after a moment, ‘Are you getting anything?’
‘A total reluctance to take them off, give them back,’ she admitted, laughing, ‘but honestly, purple shoes!’
‘Colour is making a big impact in wedding gowns these days,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It might work. Embroidery? Appliqué? I have a woman who is brilliant at that.’ Then, getting no encouragement, ‘What we really need to get you in the mood is a man.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you there,’ she said, concentrating on the shoes.
‘No? Really? But what about—’
‘Believe it,’ Sylvie swiftly cut in. ‘The infant is the result of a … a … sperm donation.’
‘At a clinic?’ She did not sound convinced.
‘Not quite, but the man wasn’t included in the deal.’
‘Oh, well, not to worry. He doesn’t have to be “the one”,’ she said, making little quotation marks. ‘Just someone hot enough to get you in that dreamy, this-will-make-him-melt mood.’ Then, when she shook her head, ‘A this-will-make-him-want-to-tear-it-off-and-take-you-to-bed mood would do,’ she assured her.
Which fired up all those visions of Tom McFarlane that she’d been doing her best to smother.
‘Not possible, I’m afraid.’
‘No? Shame. But there are some seriously hunky blokes putting up a marquee out there. I’ll go and drag one of them in, shall I?’
She turned as someone cleared his throat behind her.
‘Oh, hi, Mark. What are you doing here?’ Then, before he could answer, she glanced at Sylvie, a wicked little gleam in her eye. ‘Sylvie, have you met Mark Hilliard, very hot architect of this parish? Mark, Sylvie Smith.’
‘You’ve been misinformed, Sylvie. I live in Upper Haughton with my wife and our three children, so whatever Geena has in mind I regret that the answer is no.’
‘My sentiments exactly,’ Sylvie said quickly.
But he wasn’t finished. ‘For this parish you need Tom McFarlane, Geena. The new owner of Longbourne Court.’
And, as the man himself appeared in the doorway, he left them to it while he took his notebook on a tour of the morning room.
‘Tom?’ Geena said, offering her hand. ‘Geena Wagner.’ Then, she stood back to admire the view. ‘Oh, yes. You’re perfect.’
‘I am?’ he asked, confused but smiling. A natural smile, the kind any man would bestow on an attractive woman at their first meeting. The kind he’d never given her.
He hadn’t caught sight of her—yet.
Sylvie struggled to protest, but only managed a groan—enough to attract his attention. The confusion remained, but the smile disappeared as fast as a snowball tossed into hell.
‘Absolutely perfect!’ Geena exclaimed in reply to his question, although he didn’t appear to have heard. ‘You’re not married, are you?’ Geena pressed, apparently oblivious to the sudden tension, unaware of the looming disaster.
‘Why don’t you ask Miss Smith?’ he replied while she was still trying to untangle her vocal cords. Stop Geena from making things a hundred times worse.
The mildness of his tone belied the hard glitter in his eyes as he looked over Geena’s head and straight at her. As if the fact that he wasn’t was somehow her fault.
Along with global warming, the national debt and the price of fuel, no doubt.
‘You know each other! Excellent. The thing is, Tom, Sylvie needs a stand-in fantasy man. Are you game?’
‘Nnnnnn …’ was all she could manage, since not only were her vocal cords in a knot, but her tongue had apparently turned into a lump of wood.
‘That rather depends on the nature of the fantasy,’ he replied, ignoring her frantically shaking head. His expression suggested that he harboured any number of fantasies in which she was the main participant …
‘Well, all I need is for you to stand there looking hot and fanciable.’ She smiled encouragingly. Then, before he could move, ‘That’s it. Perfect.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ he protested.
‘You don’t have to,’ she said, grinning hugely at her own cleverness. ‘Right, Sylvie. Get your imagination into gear.’
‘Geena, I think …’
‘Thinking is the last thing I want from you. This is all about feelings. The senses,’ she said bossily, stepping from between them and, taking her by the shoulders, lined her up so that she was facing him.
The sun was streaming into the morning room and she’d shrugged off the loose knee-length cardigan-style wrap that had become a permanent cover-up since her pregnancy had begun to show and her condition was unmistakable.
And his expression left her in no doubt as to his feelings. He was angry …
‘Forget that sweater, those pants, excellent though they are,’ Geena said. ‘For this exercise he’s wearing a morning suit …’ she glanced down at the purple shoes ‘.a grey morning suit with a purple waistcoat and violets in his buttonhole.’
Tom McFarlane made a sound that suggested ‘not in this life’.
‘He’s standing at the altar and he’s—’
‘What altar?’ Tom demanded, having been finally jerked out of his own private fantasy world in which, no doubt, all wedding coordinators were fed on wedding cake—the kind with rock-hard royal icing—until their teeth fell out.
What had he done with that wedding cake …?
‘Good point, Tom. Village church, Sylvie?’ she asked, breathing into her thoughts.
Sylvie opened her mouth, determined to put an end to this nightmare, but it was
