‘Argh! What did you do that for? These are the only shoes I have with me!’
Dan extracted his dripping shoe and flapped away a clinging waterlily leaf before turning towards Rachel who clearly had no sympathy for his predicament.
‘It’s no less than you deserve!’
Rachel stalked away, her head held high as Dan stared after her, his jaw loose, his face a picture of complete amazement and bafflement. Lexie wasn’t sure if it was because his advances had been spurned for a second time or from regret at even starting the conversation in the first place.
However, one thing that did occur to her as she extricated herself from the embrace of the prickly privet hedge to continue on her way to the hotel, was that if Rachel had already warned him once about his behaviour, did Dan have a reason to target Rachel to get his own back for turning him down? It was a possibility, and his was the first name she scribbled down on her list of suspects.
Chapter Eight
By the time seven o’clock rolled round, Lexie had all her ticks on Marley’s list headed ‘Friday’. Her neck and shoulders ached, her head was spinning, and she was starving. Despite spending the whole day at a gorgeous, luxury manor house nestled in the Cornish countryside, complete with cordon bleu chef and his talented patisserie assistant, not a morsel of food had passed her lips since the croissant Freya had given her on the way over that morning.
With Zara’s blessing, she left the hotel, smartly sidestepping an approach from Nadia enquiring about the possibility of organising a string quartet for the evening reception instead of the calypso band, promising to pay twice, even three-times the price if Lexie could pull it out of the bag. She wondered what it must be like to have so much money you could even contemplate asking for such a thing. She knew that apart from the wedding outfits, which were being paid for by Audrey, the balance of the wedding costs; the reception, the photographer, the flowers, the hairdresser, the band and the disco, and indeed Marley’s fee, was being split between Nadia and George.
As she navigated the twists and turns of the hedgerow-lined Cornish roads in Marley’s scarlet Mini Cooper, she fantasized about relaxing in a hot bath filled with fragrant bubbles and maybe a small glass of the delicious red wine she had opened the previous evening to calm her nerves as she prepared for her very first foray into the realms of a wedding planner. She felt like a fraud; especially as Freya had assured an anxiety-ridden Marley that Lexie had ample experience of staging weddings. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably at the deception and she had wanted to come clean to Nadia and George when she met them, but had been persuaded otherwise by Freya as she handed over the meticulously prepared leather-bound folder with checklists, the contact details of every supplier in any way connected to the Carter-Jones wedding, and even photographs of the intended lay-out of the orangery and directions on how to fold the pesky napkins.
Lexie was also looking forward to a long gossip with Pippa, desperate to hear what was happening at the fashion house. Despite her fervent promise to Freya, she had been unable to resist the temptation to read the reviews of the Pierre Fontaine Autumn/Winter collection and had scrutinised every blog post, every on-line fashion forum and every trade magazine and newsletter for their response to the garments that had been showcased that night. Along with many others who worked in the fashion industry, she was fortunate to possess a sixth sense that told her within minutes of a catwalk show ending whether a collection would be a runaway success or chalked up as merely mediocre. Those articles that had reported only on the sartorial part of the evening had sung its praises, and even though she didn’t work there anymore, she rejoiced in Pierre’s success – a piece of her heart would always remain attached to the vibrant, quirky, flamboyance of her former employer’s designs.
As she approached the outskirts of the village of Pengarth, taking care to slow her speed in the unfamiliar car, her thoughts inevitably spun to Elliot, and despite herself a stab of guilt shot through her chest. She knew she should have given him the opportunity to explain why he’d been canoodling in the Italian restaurant with Birthday Girl when he should have been celebrating with her at the after party at the Ritz. She had enough self-awareness to know that it was one of her least endearing character traits; if at all possible – take the ostrich approach. That’s what she had done when her father had passed away, and what she had continued to do whenever difficult questions or situations reared their ugly heads. However, this time there was an additional fear lurking in her emotional cauldron – if she had given Elliot the chance to explain, he would have either persuaded her that it was last minute wedding nerves on his part or, much more likely, made out that it was her fault in some way.
An image of Theo floated through her mind. Were all guys the same?
She discarded that thought immediately. Freya’s husband Harry was a darling. Not only was he good-looking, despite the broken nose he’d sustained during a particularly hard fought Tae Kwando match, but he was also a fabulous father to Chloe and incredibly supportive of Freya’s dream to make her wedding gowns the most sought-after in Cornwall, helping her to run Blissful Brides, handle the accounts and care for Chloe at the weekends, even though his job as an architect took up a lot of his time. Then there was her own father, who had adored the very ground her mother Anthea walked on – or should that be danced on? Both her parents had been gripped by the Strictly Come Dancing phenomenon that had swept the nation, so much so that they had polished off their platform dancing shoes – bought in the nineteen seventies when disco was the preferred musical genre – and shimmied along to the local village hall to take ballroom dancing classes.
As she drove past the ‘Pengarth – Winner of Cornwall in Bloom’ sign, Lexie smiled to herself, remembering her parents’ joy at winning a trophy for the most inventive foxtrot at Newquay’s annual Ballroom Dancing competition. After her father’s passing, far from hanging up her dancing shoes, her mother had religiously stuck to her weekly classes; the friends she had made there rallying around to bolster her spirits during the most difficult and heart-aching time of her life. And now that her mother was happily ensconced in her little white-washed villa on Majorca’s east coast, she’d continued her obsession with dance, switching to salsa and flamenco lessons. Lexie wished she had even half of her mother’s energy and zest for life – but when you lose the love of your life it must bring home the fact that every moment is precious and should be lived to the full. Her mother was chasing her dreams and Lexie could do worse than follow in her footsteps.
She thought of the conversation she’d had with her mum when she’d arrived to take up residence in the minuscule studio flat above Freya’s bridal boutique the day after ‘the night before,’ when all her dreams – both personal and professional – had crumbled before her eyes. Falteringly, she had explained to her horrified mum that not only had she lost her job, but somehow, she had lost her fiancé as well.
How careless was that?
As expected, her mum had listened to everything she had said, asking the right questions in the right places and delivered her verdict with the directness she had been famous for in St Ives: the pain would pass and that everything would work out in the end. She had offered to speak to Elliot, but Lexie had asked her not to, her mum had also offered to help with the phone calls to cancel everything, but again, Lexie had explained that the person who should be responsible for that unappetising task was the person who had caused the need for it – Elliot.