“You are, Joe. It’s those big blue eyes and massive smile. Face facts. You’re a very pretty boy.”
“Gross.”
She smiles. She’s a gorgeous woman with long dark hair and a beautifully rounded figure. She’s a vital part of the agency. She has a wide circle of informants and knows every scrap of gossip in town—who’s getting engaged, divorced, whose marriage is on the rocks. Trivial information according to Lachlan, but rather important in my industry.
“Is everyone in?”
She nods, already munching on her muffin. “Artie is in. Kat is out on a meeting with a prospective customer, and Jed is on the phone to Mrs Fenwick-Adams.”
I grimace. “Is she on the warpath again?”
“Apparently we should have known that it was going to rain on her daughter’s wedding day despite the fact that she booked the date two years before.”
“We’re neither Alanis Morrisette, nor gifted with precognition. And if we were, I’d hate to waste it on Mrs Fenwick-Adams. I’d just predict endless days on the phone complaining to the world.” I shudder. “I’m glad Jed’s got her.”
The owner of the agency is ably positioned to deal with her. He manages to be both firm and charming. I only really manage the latter as I’m putty in my clients’ hands.
“Where’s Rafferty?” I ask.
“Probably crawling out of a stranger’s bed right about now. He was at Idol last night charming the masses. He just rang to say he’ll be here in ten minutes.”
Rafferty and I joined the agency at the same time and for a while were put on the same weddings together. I still treasure the memories of those days, because I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much. However, Jed said we were a terrible influence on each other and must be separated.
I gather up the cups. “I’ll put these on their desks, then. I’ve got a shitload to get through today. Janine Thompson and her sister are coming in at ten for a last go-through.”
She grimaces. “I’ll invest in a good pair of noise-cancelling headphones, then. Her sister is hell on wheels.”
“She could actually teach hell a thing or two. I’ll be glad when I never see her again.”
Leaving the reception area, I make my way back into the main office, glancing at the space with my usual appreciation. Jed inherited the tall Georgian house on Sloane Square when his husband Mick died. Mick was a member of a very wealthy family and left a fortune to Jed, and, as far as I can see, Jed has spent it all on Confetti Hitched and none of it on himself.
He still lives in the two upper floors of the house that Mick had converted into their living quarters when they got married. The ground floor is made up of offices and a common workspace.
The planners’ desks are situated in this larger area with tall ceilings, a big fireplace—which I note with satisfaction currently has a fire roaring in it—and plenty of Georgian barred windows that let in an abundance of light. The navy-coloured wallpaper and white paintwork are elegant, but cheer and riotous colour are evident in the many boards behind our desks, where fabric samples and wedding stationery have been pinned. The room’s far corner houses a seating area with a big leather sofa, two chairs, and a low, wide coffee table.
I edge into Jed’s office and set his Americano on his desk, along with a triple espresso and a banana muffin.
“No, Mrs Fenwick-Adams, I cannot contact the Met office and make a complaint,” he says, nodding his thanks at me. I leave him to it before he asks me to join the conversation.
Jed’s assistant is working at his desk, his short, dark hair shining in the light. I set his coffee down and he looks up with his sweet smile. “Thanks, Joe,” he says gratefully.
Arthur, or Artie, is a beautiful young man. He’s slender and has the lightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. He has the temperament of a nice Austen sister and is the source of all calm in the office with his sunny smile. He’s also desperately in love with Jed, but it’s very one-sided as Jed persists in treating him like he’s ten.
I slide into my desk by the window that looks down on Sloane Square with the usual sense of familiarity. It’s like coming home. Only rather than pipe and slippers, I have five tons of bridal magazines, hotel brochures, and a box of cake samples. I note that the samples are looking slightly decimated, which means Ingrid and Rafferty got the munchies yesterday.
I gaze out the window to the square, which is still decorated for Christmas. The decorations are looking slightly sad now, and people scurry past, bowled along by the cold wind. The clouds are heavy, and the sky is grey, making the predicted snow seem like it could be a reality. I try not to remember that Lachlan and I were supposed to be going to Courchevel for a week of skiing. I still have the week’s holiday booked.
I presume Lachlan will go ahead with the holiday as he loves skiing. Me, not so much. I’m much happier on a beach with a cocktail and a good book. I’d tried to fit in with Lachlan’s idea of a good time though, but the one time we’d gone skiing, I’d managed to knock myself out when I fell off the ski lift. How was I to know that it would just keep going around like some hellish merry-go-round?
That incident had definitely cooled his friends’ desire to ski with me. I grimace. There hadn’t been any sympathetic faces amongst that group. They treated me as some strange fancy of Lachlan’s—his brief foray into marriage. And because he was casual with me himself, they never bothered to get to know me, seeing me as some sort of strange trophy Lachlan had accidentally won. I’d hated every minute of the trip and had been trying to think of ways to get out of this one. I suppose that’s one thing the divorce has been good for. I don’t have to ski anymore.
I’m indulging in an ill-advised daydream of Lachlan on that holiday—his tanned body against the white sheets of our huge bed and his sleepy smile as he woke up beside me—when a disturbance at the door jolts me.
Rafferty appears, dishevelled and quite obviously wearing last night’s clubbing clothes right down to the stamp on his wrist. His shoulder-length, strawberry-blond hair normally falls in shiny waves, but this morning it looks as if he’s been standing in a wind tunnel, and his eyes are red-rimmed.
“Fucking hell, I’m dead,” he proclaims and collapses at his desk. Of course, everything that’s piled on it shudders and starts to slide off. He makes a grab for it, giving a piteous moan that we all ignore unsympathetically. Coordination fails him, and his folders sail into the bin.
“That about sums up your filing system,” Ingrid says.
I nod at his drink. “One vanilla latte for you.”
“You are a god amongst friends.”
“If I was, I rather think I might be one of those inclined to rain thunderbolts down on your head, Raff.”
“No need. The Jägermeister has done the trick for you.”
Jed pokes his head out of his door. Arthur immediately brightens but Jed doesn’t notice. “Time for a quick staff meeting?” Jed asks.
We nod and Jed settles himself in the chair by Arthur’s desk. His face lights up as he looks at his assistant. “Alright?” he asks.
Arthur nods fervently. “Brilliant, thank you.”
Jed opens his huge desk diary, which has bits of paper sticking out from it everywhere. It looks chaotic, but he’s actually hyper-organised and knows everything about the workings of the office.