I look at my watch. “By a minute. I do apologise.”
“A minute of my time, Mr Bagshaw, and that is valuable.”
I’d love to enquire why. Is she burning witches today, pillaging a village, or maybe knitting by the guillotine for the afternoon? Instead, I offer her a vague smile and sit down at the table.
I look around with appreciation. The Langham is one of the grand old London hotels, and being in the Palm Court feels like sitting inside a delicate boudoir. It’s warm and smells of cinnamon and expensive happiness.
I smile at Erica as I remove my laptop from my bag and open it up. “How’s Ryan, lovely?”
Frances huffs, and Erica shoots her a nervous smile before looking back at me. She’s an extremely beautiful young woman with gilt fair hair that falls in a cascade down her back. Her complexion is peaches and cream and her eyes are very blue. She’s the only daughter in her family, and as far as I can tell, has had every advantage that life could offer. The best schools, clothes, and ponies. It’s a testament to her sweet nature that none of it has affected her for the worse. She’s modest and kind, and her mother walks all over her with her size-five Louboutin’s.
As if on cue, Frances the Tyrant tuts. “I suppose he’s at work. It would have been nice to have had some support with all these wedding decisions we’re making.”
We? Mommie Dearest and her poor beleaguered husband are footing the wedding’s bill, and if she’s allowed anyone else to have any input on the arrangements, then I’m Billie Eilish.
“He’s very busy, Mummy,” Erica says. She offers me a nervous smile. “I suppose grooms don’t have much input anyway, do they, Joe?”
Not when they’re marrying into a family headed by Attila the Hun. “No,” I lie quickly. “It’s usually the brides. And I’m not complaining in this case, because I have the company of two lovely ladies all to myself.”
I throw up in my mouth a little, but Frances looks slightly appeased, and Erica shoots me a grateful look.
The waiter arrives, and we order drinks. My stomach rumbles, but I’ve got more chance of dating Jonathan Bailey than Frances paying for food for me. I’m very clearly in the help column, and so, completely below her attention. “Okay,” I say, tapping on my screen and bringing up Erica’s file. “Three days to go. Are you nervous?”
Erica smiles. “I am a bit, but I’m marrying Ryan, so I’m happy.”
They’re an adorable couple, and I’d be very happy for them if I didn’t suspect that Frances intends to rule their marriage the way she does her own. Her husband had seemed nice the one time I’d met him, not that I could judge well, seeing as he wasn’t allowed to get a word in edgeways.
“Well, I think we’re ready for everything. You pick the dress up tomorrow, yes?” Erica and her mum nod. “Great. Both bridesmaids have picked theirs up. I checked with the dress shop yesterday.”
“I do think it’s a mistake to have had Paula as your bridesmaid, dear.”
“Mother, she’s been my best friend since primary school.”
“She has rather sluttish tendencies.”
“Mother,” Erica says in a shocked voice.
I keep my attention firmly on my laptop. I’d heard all about Paula and her round-heeled ways when I was stuck in the office last week with Frances. It’s not an experience I ever want to repeat. Rafferty had lasted a whole five minutes before giving me a panicked look and exiting stage left, muttering about an appointment with his therapist.
“The cake will be delivered on the morning of the wedding,” I interject. “I’ll touch base with the baker when I get into the office.”
“Will it be okay?” Erica asks.
I smile at her. “It’ll be beautiful. They make the most stunning wedding cakes.”
I check my laptop. “I have a wedding tomorrow, and then I’m flying to Scotland immediately afterwards. I’ll check on all the arrangements personally but my colleague who’s in that area for a wedding says everything looks good.”
Frances stirs, directing her basilisk glare at me, and I resist the impulse to cover my groin protectively. “I do hope no one else is being married there as well as us.”
“Hmm,” I say rather than point out that she’s rented the hotel, not bought it lock stock and two hopefully smoking barrels.
She narrows her eyes. “And I trust you will not be stopping in the hotel, Mr Bagshaw. I’m afraid we didn’t agree to pay for that.”
“Mother,” Erica says, looking mortified.
I offer her mother my patented smile. It doesn’t meet my eyes, but I don’t think she’s aware of it. “Of course not. I will be staying in a bed and breakfast in the village.”
“Oh, Joe, no. I don’t want you to put yourself out,” Erica says softly.
Frances rolls her eyes. “Mr Bagshaw and the agency are being paid a great deal of money to arrange this wedding, Erica. I’m sure he’ll be fine wherever he stays. You should be more concerned about Daddy and me. After all, we’re the ones paying for the whole thing.”
I do wish she’d stop referring to her husband as Daddy. It’s completely spoiling the erotic undertones of the word. Erica’s father is a thin, haunted-looking man who, as far as I can judge, spends most of his life in his study. If I were him, I’d have a stout lock on the door. Either that, or I’d have sited my office in Gibraltar.
Something uncharacteristically cool flickers in Erica’s eyes, but it’s gone in an instant.
“And we’re very grateful, Mummy,” she says softly. “But still, I’d like Joe to be okay.”
I’m touched by her concern. So close to the big day, most brides can think only of themselves and all the myriad disasters potentially lying in wait.
“I’ll be fine,” I say quickly. “I’ve stayed in the place before, and it’s lovely.”
Frances’s gaze drops to my left hand, and I immediately want to cover my wedding ring’s blingy glory. “You’re married yourself, Mr Bagshaw?”
“Yes,” I say, sipping my coffee and hoping she leaves it at that.
Her eyes sharpen. She’s obviously sensed my reticence, and knowing her, she’ll peck at it.
“How lovely. How many years?”
“One,” I say defiantly and completely untruthfully.
“Oh, so you’re still newlyweds. Do you and your wife live in London?”
“Husband, and yes.”
Her eyes narrow. “Lovely,” she says in a tone that suggests something completely different.
“Is your husband Lachlan Moore, Joe?” Erica speaks quickly, probably to stifle any homophobic comments from her mother.
I stare at her. “He is. How do you know?”
“Oh, I think you must have told me, or someone in your office did.”
I hesitate. I hate being deceitful, but it’s a solid-gold office rule not to discuss relationship woes with our clients. Nothing brings a party down quicker. “Yes,” I say. “His name is Lachlan.”
“And is he lovely, Joe?”
“Oh yes,” I say cheerfully. “Absolutely wonderful.”